* * * * *
Fred rummaged through
his thick file, and subsequently pulled out a dossier bearing a photo of
Danielle. After scanning it for a couple
of minutes, Fred cleared his throat, and started his narrative. ”Right...first of all her name wasn’t
Danielle. She was born Henriette
Hamaty, in 1977, at the West Bank to a radical French
father and Palestinian mother...both Mom and Dad being heavily involved with
Hamas. But before they could marry, Dad
was killed conducting a Hamas seaborne night-raid of Tel Aviv, in 1992, when
their daughter was fifteen; prompting her to take her mother’s family name:
Hamaty. In her late teens she was sent
to live with an uncle in Amman, Jordan. Then
in 1998, when she was twenty-one, since she was fluent in both Arabic and
French, al-Qa’ida recruited her, getting her a Jordanian passport and shipping
her off to a terrorist training camp at Tarnak Farms, near Kandahar, in
Afghanistan.”
Fred looked up at me,
adding, “Which, incidentally, was the home of Osama bin Laden at that time.”
“How’d she get involved
with that Saudi I popped in the hotel’s lobby?” I asked; burning up with
curiosity.
Fred flipped a couple
of pages on her dossier; scanned it a moment, and then replied, ”Oh,
yeah...here we go. During a live-fire
training exercise, she was accidentally shot in the leg by that Saudi. While she recovered the Saudi brought her
flowers every day at the infirmary. Apparently,
this led to them becoming lovers.”
“Goddamn...talk about
tough love,” I observed. “What’s the s-story
on the Saudi?”
Fred pulled out another
dossier, with the Saudi’s photo on its cover, skimmed it, and eventually
replied. “Oh...you’re gonna love
this. It turns out this particular Saudi
was a second cousin to Osama bin Laden.”
“Holy hard-landings,” I
exclaimed. “You mean I c-capped bin Laden’s cousin?”
Fred nodded in the
affirmative, and grinned.
“Why do I have the
feeling I’ve been dropped in deep kimchi?” I imagined sourly.
“I didn’t want to tell
you this before,” Fred acknowledged.
“Cause the doc told us to keep your stress at a minimum. Except why else would we place you in this
private government clinic with around the clock security? You’re on al-Qa’ida’s hit list my man.”
“Oh, fuck...” I uttered
bitterly. “Just when I think there’s a
light at the end of my tunnel...it gets snuffed out.”
“That’s also why we’re
prepared to offer you WITSEC,” Fred continued. “The Witness Protection Program will give
you a change of identity. It’s a big
step...so give it some thought as to where you want to hide out.”
After saying this, Fred became distracted. Something in the Saudi’s file caught his eye. “Hmm...I didn’t know that,” Fred muttered. “It seems Osama bin Laden’s mother, Alia Ghanem, was from Syria.
Perhaps that’s why Osama’s cousin got wired
into the Syrians at the deli here in Frisco.”
Fred kept reading, and then blurted out, “Wow...get this. Osama was the forty-third of fifty-three
siblings! In turn Osama had five wives
and eleven children!”
Actually, dear reader, in future it turned out to be a lot more
kids. After Osama bin Laden’s
assassination-execution, by SEAL Team-Six on 2nd May 2011, it was
learned Osama had fathered somewhere between 20 to 26 children!”
Freddy couldn’t resist
it; he glanced up and exclaimed, “Jeez-Louise!
Never underestimate the breeding capabilities of rats!”
We both laughed at his hypothesis.
“Okay...enough of the b-breeding
angle,” I interjected. “Let’s get back
to the ‘love story.’ So, the Saudi and
Danielle...or Henriette...hooked up at the al-Qa’ida t-training camp in
Afghanistan. What happened next?”
Fred went back to Danielle’s
dossier and mumbled, “Let’s see...” as he thumbed the pages. “Oh, yes...it appears our Saudi was a bit of
a playboy terrorist.”
“Whoa there,
Buckaroo...hold your horses!” I exclaimed.
“What in Sam Hill is a p-playboy terrorist?”
Fred explained, “This
is a piece of Muslim scum that never pulls a trigger; never plants a bomb, or,
Allah forbid, never becomes a martyr.
Instead, he recruits religious idiot-zealots to conduct all his dirty,
murdering business.”
“But that takes a load
of really serious money. Doesn’t it Fred?”
“Oh, yeah...” Fred concurred. “And our boy had access to serious coin from
the bin Laden family’s contracting business based at Riyadh. Using the family’s business as his cover, he
moved freely about Europe and the Middle East...always going first class.”
Fred paused as he
examined Danielle’s dossier again.
Finally he said, “So our Saudi whisks little Henriette out of the
Afghani-Desert and sets her up with a luxury apartment in Paris. Then came the nose job, the tit job; the
acting, modeling, dancing, martial arts and English language lessons. And before one can say viola tout...petite Henriette
completes the metamorphosis to Danielle Beausejour with her very own French
passport.”
Fred looked up with a
puzzled expression, saying “Well...this is where it gets rather murky. At first it seems al-Qa’ida used her as a
sort of escort-assassin. That is until
she became too important to them. Only
this is mainly a supposition on our part.”
Fred referred to her
dossier again, and added, “All we know for certain is this. When an arms deal with al-Qa’ida went sour, a
Swiss industrialist and a French banker involved in this deal, washed up on a
beach in Marbella. One had been killed
with a .22 and the other with an ice pick...and both were last seen at a disco
with Danielle.”
At this point, dear reader, I felt queasy as I recalled the Saudi and
Danielle planning to lure me into bed and use an ice pick on me. How fucking, goddamned romantic!
Becoming uncomfortable
with this memory, I asked, “So, how did she become ‘too important’ to al-Qa’ida...p-prompting
her retirement as a hit-woman?”
Fred then turned to his
fat leather notebook; opened it and thumbed through it, until locating the
proper section. After perusing it a
moment; he consequently said, “Here it is...the Saudi eventually got Danielle a
job as guest relations officer at the Hotel
Nikko de Paris.
“Get outta town” I
exclaimed. “When I flew with SAUDIA and
Singapore Airlines that’s the hotel they both p-put me up at whenever I did a P-Paris
layover. It’s owned by JAL, isn’t it?”
“That’s correct,” Fred agreed. “And that was Danielle’s next assignment.”
“Her assignment...” I
asked; totally lost.
“Oh, yes...” Fred
explained, as he glanced up at me. “She
was ordered to hook an airline pilot.”
Dumfounded, I
responded, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I jest you not, Mr.
Chisholm,” Fred retorted. “And I’ll be
go to hell, if Danielle didn’t find the perfect fall guy...a Captain Ted Carson
with United Airlines.”
“Perfect? In what way,” I asked.
“Hey, hey, hey...” I objected. “I resemble that!”
Fred chuckled, then
said, “Bottom line...the poor dumb-fuck didn’t stand a chance. Before you could say, ‘furloughed for
misconduct,’ they tied the knot at ‘The Little Chapel of the Plastic Heart’ in
Vegas. The next thing Danielle knew, she
was a respectable Denver housewife married to a United Captain. Needless to say al-Qa’ida was over the
moon. Now she was a far too significant
asset to be risked as a hit-woman.”
Another uncomfortable
thought suddenly erupted in my grey-matter, inducing me to ask, “Was she
involved in the nine-eleven attack?”
“Yes...” Fred replied, “...being
married to an airline captain gave her free airline passes and mobility between
cities in the States and Europe. She
personally delivered crucial messages and cash to the participants in
nine-eleven. Which was much the same
work she was doing here...in preparation for the San Francisco attack.”
Being a bit perplexed
by this, I asked, “But why the Devil was Danielle working at the O’Farrell
Theater?”
Fred laid his notebook
down, as he rubbed the back of his neck, and gazed out the picture window at
the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. At
Length he said, “Well...let’s analyze it.
She only danced there two...maybe three days a week. As I understand it, most of the girls also
worked part-time...commuting from as far away as Vegas, New York, Miami and
Honolulu. So...why not a Denver
housewife? In reality it was the ideal
cover for her activities. Her job was to
take men inside dark, private cabanas, or rooms, for nude lap-dances...the best
covert environment for passing sensitive messages, or cash, without raising any
suspicions.”
“And, of course, the
Syrians were right across the street operating the delicatessen,” I added. “I was always bumping into dancers using the
deli.”
“Exactly,” Fred concurred,
“it was the perfect setup for her.”
We fell silent after
that, each of us lost in our own private thoughts. Absently I assaulted my orange juice; again
praying for VODKA. Suffering disappointment
at my prayer being ignored, I set the glass on the nightstand. At which point another nagging idea blossomed
in my grey lump three feet above my ass.
I cleared my throat,
and asked, “What’s the story on that Egyptian I iced?”
Immediately, I captured
Fred’s surprised attention, as he in turn asked, “How’d you know he was a
Gypo?”
“By his Arabic dialect,” I replied. “For example...umm...take the word
‘water.’ A Saudi says ‘moya,’ whereas an Egyptian says ‘maya.’
Except Christ on a crutch! He
really had me going there! Did you see
the size of that camel-fucker? What with
his build, and red hair, the dude resembled an offensive tackle for the
Forty-niners.”
Fred went back to his thick file, sorted it until finding the correct dossier, and began scanning it. In due course he said, “Well...perhaps that’s because his father was Irish and his mother was Egyptian. As of yet we haven’t that much on him. Apparently he was a hitman for the E.I.J.” Fred elaborated, “That stands for the Egyptian Islamic Jihad out of Cairo...a terrorist group that merged with al-Qa’ida just this last June. Evidently ‘our’ red-headed Gypo preferred using a blade on his assassination jobs.”
At
this juncture I folded up my newspaper and laid it on the nightstand, which
prompted me, out of curiosity, to ask, “Was there ever anything in the press on
my ‘gunfight at the OK Corral’?”
“Nope...” Fred flatly replied.
“For reasons of national security we managed to nip it in the bud. The shootout at the Parc 55 was merely
another drug deal that went bad. That’s
the official story.”
Fred sifted through his file once more, and took out another
folder. Opening it, he skimmed its
contents for a few seconds; then looked up at me, saying, “And speaking of shootouts...my
superiors have instructed me to reprimand you for being a vigilante.”
This was difficult to swallow, so I replied bitterly, “Let me get this
straight. First I’m some kinda
half-assed hero...now I’m a Vigilante? Great
galloping-gametes! I wish to hell you
people would make up your spastic-paralytic minds!” I’m absolutely steamed!
Fred dropped the folder on the bed, and held up both hands; saying,
“Easy big guy...take it easy. This concerns
appearing politically correct. Hear me
out.”
Fred picked up the folder again; scanned it, and then leveled his gaze
at me, and said, “When we positively determined the people you iced, at the
Parc 55, as members of al-Qa’ida...we cranked up the security threat level to
red at all international ports of entry.”
Not following him, I asked, “So what does that mean?”
Fred replied, “Level red lit a fire under immigration and customs to
really scrutinize travelers.”
“Okay...” I replied; still bewildered.
“And what’s that got to do with me being a vigilante?”
Fred went on, saying, “Within forty-eight hours of your shootout...immigration at SFO pulled a lady out of a line coming from London on a Greek passport.
There was something
hinky about her passport. Upon closer
scrutiny, she turned out to be a Yemeni.
When they gave her a body cavity search...guess what they found?”
Caught
off-guard, I grasped wildly at a straw, blurting out, “Bullshit! A Krytron Trigger?”
“Give that man another ceegar!” Fred exclaimed with a huge grin.
“Damn, Fred, what’s the size of these things?” I asked.
“Oh...” Fred began, “I’m told approximately 25mm...roughly the size of a
flashlight bulb. They discovered it
inside a silicone sleeve jammed up her vaginal vault...all safe, dry and warm.”
Floored by this, I asked, “So, you think she was bringing it here to
al-Qa’ida in San Francisco?”
Fred shrugged, and replied, “What else would she be doing with it?”
“Okay...and if I had gone to the cops first,” I surmised, “instead of
shooting it out with al-Qa’ida, the terrorists would have gotten the Krytron
Trigger and blown up their nuke.”
Fred cleared his throat, and cautiously said, “Off the record...that’s
probably what would have happened, because it would take weeks for the cops and
FBI to check out your story. Especially
since you didn’t have any proof to back up your claim.”
“So Jake was right,“ I observed.
“We had run out of time.”
“On the record...” Fred interjected, “promise
me, Pete, you’ll never attempt being a vigilante again.”
“Fred...look at me,” I said in my defense. “Being a vigilante has its price. I’m all shot to shit and came within a red
cunt hair of being killed. I’d have to
be completely nuts to try this again.”
At
that juncture, the door to my room opened slightly; one of the FBI guards stuck
his head in the room and said to Fred, “She’s here.”
Fred
stood up, dropped the folder on the bed and moved the chair away, as he said,
“Great...send her in.”
The FBI guard swung the door fully open.
Outside, in the hallway, I spied an attractive black woman, in her
mid-forties, wearing an expensive, smartly-tailored burgundy jacket with fitted
skirt; standing with her back to me. She
was issuing barely audible instructions to a pair of white, female assistants
in their twenties, likewise in tailored outfits. Standing to one side of this
black woman was an athletic white male, mid-thirties, in a dark suit. Later I’d learn from the FBI, this man was a
Secret Service Agent detailed as the black woman’s bodyguard.
The FBI guard on my door approached this black woman, and said, “You can
go in now, Ma’am.”
The
black woman smiled and nodded in the affirmative; then finished her
instructions to the assistants.
Afterward she turned towards me and strode confidently into my room,
followed by one of the assistants.
Spotting the floating, Mylar Halloween balloon tied to the foot of my
bed; caused the black woman to hesitate.
Finally she approached the balloon and tugged on its string, saying,
“What’s this Agent Glover? Are you
actually starting Halloween without me?”
She looked over at Fred and flashed him a huge grin.
Nailed
off-guard, Fred nervously laughed, and said, “Oh God...no, Ma’am. We wouldn’t dare do that...society might
collapse.”
The black woman laughed; it was a warm, earthy, infectious laugh.
Fred continued, saying, “Ma’am...may I introduce Mr. Clinton Peterson
Chisholm.” Then Fred turned to me and
said, “Pete...this is National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice.”
Rice moved to the right side of my bed and, ignoring the cast, picked up
my right hand in both her hands. As she
did this, Rice said, “Mr. Chisholm I can’t begin to express what a pleasure,
and a privilege it is, to at last meet you.”
Being totally blindsided, and overwhelmed, I intelligently replied,
“Holy Crap!”
Amused by her obvious impact on me, Rice laughed.
In
my defense, I went on, saying, “Uhhh...”
Oh excellent, dummy! What an intelligent beginning!
“Please forgive my bad language, Ma’am. But you kinda caught me off-guard
here...Jesus...you’re just as pretty in real life as you are on TV.”
Rice shot Fred another large grin, saying, “Agent Glover, there was
nothing in your reports regarding him having a silver tongue.”
To
which Fred replied, “Sorry about that, Ma’am.
Keep your guard up...he will get under your skin.”
Then Rice turned to me and asked, “So...how is the FBI treating
you? Are all of your needs being met?”
“In ways I never imagined, Ma’am,” I truthfully admitted. “They’ve taken care of my operation; put me
up in this great room with guards on the door...Christ, I’m in tall
clover.” Then I fired a mischievous
glance at Fred; adding, “And later tonight, they’ve promised to take me trick
or treating.”
Embarrassed, Fred cringed and took this opportunity to remove and clean
his glasses.
Rice gave Fred an incredulous look, as she asked me, “They’ve promised
to do what?”
“Trick or treating, Ma’am,” I elaborated. “Fred here will push me in a wheelchair;
another agent will carry my drip-bag and two more agents will bring backpacks
for the candy. Since they’ll all be
armed...I plan on really cleaning up tonight.
Screw those other little kids.”
Fred replaced his glasses; leveled his gaze
at Rice, and said dryly, “It’s the morphine, Ma’am. They’ve got him on a morphine drip.” Then Fred shifted his intense stare at me,
and observed, “It tends to make him hallucinate.”
Honestly, dear reader, by this time Rice and
her assistant are in stitches.
In the end, after controlling her amusement, Rice went along
with the gag, and asked me, “Mr. Chisholm, could you possibly divulge to me as
to what costume you’ll be wearing for this evening’s activities? God forbid we should get caught wearing the
same thing.”
I
laughed and replied, “Not to worry, Ma’am.
I’ll be wearing handcuffs.”
Puzzled, Rice then asked, “Handcuffs?”
In
response, I stated, “Oh yes, Ma’am. I’ll
be going as an FBI hostage.”
And now, dear reader, Fred, Rice and the
assistant are in stitches.
After a while the room settled down to a more somber tone.
Rice cleared her throat, and then addressed me, “On a more serious note,
Mr. Chisholm, my mission today is a simple one.
On behalf of a grateful nation I’m here to present you with two
gifts.” Still holding my right hand,
with cast, she bent over me, saying, “First of all, this...” And, having said that, Rice planted a kiss on
my forehead; leaving a bit of lipstick on the edge of the white dressing
covering my skull.
Coming upright, Rice turned towards her assistant and extended a hand,
saying, “Sheri...could I have that envelope?”
The assistant pulled out an official government envelope from her
shoulder bag, and handed it to Rice.
Who, in turn, slipped the envelope into my right hand; then added, “And
secondly, I wish to leave this with you.”
Releasing my right hand, she told me, “Get well soon, Mr. Chisholm, your
country is in dire need of citizens with your qualities.”
Her words caused my eyes to well-up, as I swallowed the lump in my
throat, and humbly said, “T-Thank you, Ma’am...for everything.”
Observing the desired affect her words had on me, Rice smiled warmly and
turned to leave.
As
she passed Fred, Rice hesitated and pointed back at me; instructing, “Anything
this man wants or needs, Agent...he gets. Understand?”
“Affirmative, Ma’am,” Fred replied.
Rice continued her journey to the open doorway, with her assistant. However, before stepping through it, she
paused once more and glanced back at Fred.
Holding up an index finger, she said, “Except one thing, Agent.”
“What’s that?” Fred asked.
“No trick or treating,” Rice replied flatly. Then she looked at me, gave me a warm
smile...and winked. Afterwards she exited
the room, and her assistant closed the door behind them.
Shaking
his head in amazement, Fred shot me a grin and we both laughed.
After getting that out of our systems, Fred consulted his wristwatch,
and then moved to the foot of my bed and began loading up the various folders
inside his thick file. “Let’s take a
break,” he said as he worked. “The Doc
says you need lots of rest...and not to wear you out.”
After Fred gathered up his thick file and notebook, he added, “We’ll
pick this up again maybe after lunch. That
is if you’re feeling up to it. Can I get
you anything before I go?”
“Thanks for asking, Fred, but I’m pretty well squared away,” I
replied. Then I had an afterthought,
“Oh, hey...there is something you could do.”
“What’s that?“ Fred responded.
“Whenever
that damned nurse comes in here to give me a bath,” I commenced to bitch, “she
turns my TV off using the main switch on the set...which makes my remote
control useless. Then she pulls the
drapes wide open. Could you be a pal and
close those drapes about halfway, to cut the glare on the TV’s screen? Then maybe switch on the TV on your way out?”
Moving to the picture window, Fred closed the drapes halfway, and
glanced back at me, asking, ”How’s that, partner?”
“Oh, yeah...that’s the ticket,” I responded. “Thanks, Fred.”
Moving to the door, Fred reached up and snapped on the TV. Glancing back at me, he said, ”Get some
rest. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“You bet...unless I get the itch to roll for Vegas in my wheelchair with
my drip-bag on wheels,” I suggested.
Fred laughed as he left the room and closed the door.
Now
I’m left all alone with the government envelope. Curious as to what’s inside, I held it up to
the light; detecting what appeared to be a rectangular document therein.
My curiosity being tweaked, I carefully tore off one end of the envelope. Using thumb and index finger of my left hand, I pulled out its contents; which in turn caused me to mumble in shock, “Well...I’ll be a fucking red-assed ape.”
And as my grey-matter struggled to accept the fact I’m currently a
multi-millionaire, the TV came to life, and a very familiar voice rudely
interrupted my mental processes.
“Hello engine...I’m Jake Holman.”
Looking up at the TV, stunned by what I discovered there, caused me to
let go of the check, whereby it spiraled to the floor.
HBO is running the 1966 classic The
Sand Pebbles. Machinist’s Mate First
Class Jake Holman, dressed in Navy whites, is standing in the engine room of
the USS San Pablo; a USN gunboat
patrolling China’s Yangtze River in 1926.
The role of Jake Holman is played by actor Steve McQueen; who fondly
caresses a large red valve as he introduces himself to the mammoth steam
engine.
The camera does a close-up on McQueen, in his white, cocked sailor’s
cap, with those familiar, piercing, ultramarine eyes; which had previously transfixed
me that foggy night on the Golden Gate Bridge.
I swear to God, dear reader, for a fleeting
moment I thought he actually winked at me...then cracked his trademark, impish
smile!
Happy Halloween.
The End
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